


Imperfectly Perfect

by arysa13



Series: prompts filled (bellarke) [36]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Image, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 00:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Bellamy knows Clarke is way out of his league, which is why he refuses to tell her how he feels about her. Unfortunately, Murphy knows, and decides to use the information against him.





	Imperfectly Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> filled 3 prompts with this one
> 
> 1\. best friend-roommates to lovers Bellarke fic involving body insecurity but with Bellamy as the insecure one (I feel like it’s usually Clarke) and Clarke as the one who uplifts him.  
2\. Bellamy finally gets Clarke to be with him after years of mutual pining but gets crazy jealous because he’s still insecure and thinks she’s too good for him   
3\. his friends know Bellamy is crushing on Clarke hard but he tells them he would literally rather do anything than tell her, so they (Murphy) keep coming up with ridiculous dares for him to complete instead of telling her. like I'm imagining they start with something easy like painting his nails pink (he could totally rock that) and then it gets more and more elaborate to the point where on Tuesdays he's only allowed to eat foods that start with b or something

Of all the mistakes Bellamy has made in his life, telling Murphy about his crush on Clarke is probably the most stupid. He could have told anyone else, and he might have been teased, comforted, or pressured to do something about it. But at least with anyone else his secret would be safe. That’s not a given with Murphy.

“Have you told her yet?” Murphy asks as Bellamy lets him into his apartment. It’s Murphy’s new way of greeting Bellamy. The answer is always the same.

“No, and would you shut up?” Bellamy hisses. “She’s home.”

“You know you’re way too old to live with a roommate, right?” Murphy says. He shoves a six pack into Bellamy’s arms, then waltzes past him and into the living room.

“There’s no age limit on having a roommate,” Bellamy scoffs, pulling out a beer as he follows Murphy. He tosses the beer to his friend, now lounging on the couch, and grabs one for himself.

“I don’t know, man,” Murphy says. Bellamy flops down beside him. “By thirty-six I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to have a wife and four kids.”

“So you’ve got, what? Two years to achieve that?”

“At least I live alone.”

“I _like _having a roommate.” Just as he pronounces this, said roommate walks into the room, all dressed up in a low-cut top that immediately sends Bellamy’s brain into inappropriate territory.

“Me too,” Clarke grins. She walks over behind the couch, and both Bellamy and Murphy strain their necks to look around at her. “What are you guys getting up to tonight?” she asks.

“Watching basketball and drinking,” Bellamy tells her. “You want one?” he nods to the beer on the coffee table in front of them.

“Just let me have a sip of yours, I’m already late.” Bellamy passes her the bottle and she takes a long swig before handing it back. “Okay, I better go. I don’t know what time I’ll be back. I might see you tonight or maybe just in the morning.” 

“Okay, have fun.”

“You too.” She heads for the door, giving the boys a last wave before she’s out of sight.

“She likes you too,” Murphy says.

Bellamy snorts. “No, she doesn’t.”

“I’m telling you she does.” 

“Would you shut up?” Bellamy scowls. “You’re just making me feel worse about it.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she’s obviously way out of my league,” Bellamy says.

“You’re joking, right?” Murphy says. “Since when have you ever thought anyone was out of your league? You used to have girls begging you to take them home with you.”

“Yeah, fucking—ten years ago,” Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I’m not exactly twenty-six anymore, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You think you’re too old for her? That it?”

Bellamy shrugs. That’s not really it, but he doesn’t feel like he can explain to Murphy what the problem really is. Murphy doesn’t seem to notice Bellamy’s non-committal response.

“She’s twenty-nine, Bellamy, it’s not like she’s nineteen for fucks sake,” Murphy says, exasperated. “Seven years is not a big age gap.”

“It’s not that,” Bellamy huffs.

“Well, what is it then? Because right now you’re just sounding like an idiotic coward.”

Bellamy resists the urge to tell Murphy how rich that is, coming from the guy who moved all of his things out of his last girlfriend’s apartment, then blocked her on all social media, rather than break up with her.

“Come on, Murphy,” Bellamy says. “She’s a fucking doctor who comes from money. She’s gorgeous, and smart, and generous, and selfless. And I’m—what? A cop who barely grew up without a cent to his name, who only became a cop because he lied to a girl once and told her he was one, and she thought it was hot and he didn’t have any better plans?”

“Clarke really isn’t all that,” Murphy says. “You think way too highly of her. The only thing she’s got going for her is that she’s hot.”

“Give it a rest, Murphy,” Bellamy says.

What he doesn’t say is that yeah, Clarke is hot. Which is at least fifty per cent of the reason why she’s out of his league. But Bellamy doesn’t know how to explain that to Murphy. He wouldn’t get it. How could he? Murphy looks exactly the same as he did when he was twenty. Better, even, maybe. But Bellamy—not so much. Ten years ago, he would have asked Clarke out in a heartbeat, with no worry that she’d turn him down. Back then, he had a ridiculous amount of self-confidence that his looks would compensate for his dickish behaviour. The self-confidence was hard won, even then, after years of racist remarks telling him he was ugly. His lean, muscular body was all he had. Now he doesn’t even have that.

He’s probably only slightly less of a dick now, and without the looks or the self-confidence to cover it up. He doesn’t exactly look like he did when he was in his twenties. He doesn’t work out so much now, mostly because he doesn’t get that much free time, and he no longer wants to spend hours at the gym every week, when he could spend that time relaxing. He still enjoys playing sport and being outdoors, but he hasn’t seen his abs since he before he turned thirty. It’s not that he thinks he’s ugly, exactly, but he doesn’t feel proud of his body anymore. Doesn’t like looking in the mirror, or at old pictures, reminding him of what he used to look like.

He barely dates anymore, and it’s only half because he’s in love with his roommate. He’d been struck by a fear of dating apps and sites when he showed up for a date two years ago and seen the look of disappointment on the girl’s face. He didn’t look like his picture. She was polite enough, and quick to cover up her surprise, but it was there, and it was crushing and humiliating. She never responded when he asked if she wanted a second date.

He’s dated maybe three different women since then, all leading nowhere, and all the while pining after Clarke. Just add pathetic to the list of reasons he isn’t good enough for her.

“Whatever,” Murphy says. “I’m getting sick of listening to you pine over her.”

“You’re the one always bringing it up.”

“Because I can _see _you pining over her with your stupid lovestruck eyes. It’s disgusting.”

“I don’t have lovestruck eyes.”

“You do.”

Bellamy grimaces. “You don’t think she knows, do you?”

“She’s just as fucking stupid as you are. Which is why you have to tell her.”

“I would literally rather do anything other than that.”

Murphy pauses, his beer held to his lips. He raises an eyebrow. “Anything, huh?”

“Anything.”

“Fine,” Murphy says. He takes a swig from his bottle. “How about you… paint your fingernails bright pink instead?”

Bellamy frowns. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because it’s either that or tell Clarke how you feel.”

“You can’t force me to do either of those things.”

“If you don’t tell her, I will. Or you can paint your fingernails. Your choice.”

Bellamy stares at him. “Are you—_blackmailing _me?”

“Well, when you put it like that—yes.”

Bellamy considers. He knows very well Murphy is likely to make good on his threats. And having bright pink nails isn’t the worst thing.

“I’ll go and see if Clarke has any pink nail polish,” he says.

By the time Clarke gets home, Murphy is gone, and Bellamy is in bed, his nails sloppily painted pink. He’d made Murphy do it for him, since it was his idea.

He’s scrolling on his phone, and his bedroom door opens. Clarke’s silhouette is outlined by the light coming from down the hall. Instantly he thinks something must be wrong, or else why would she be here? Usually she’ll tell him about her dates if he’s still up when she gets home, but she doesn’t normally come and see him if he’s already in bed. 

Bellamy flicks on the lamp beside his bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Clarke says. “Are you awake?”

Bellamy relaxes. “Obviously. How was your date?”

“Turns out it wasn’t a date. She’s painfully straight.” Clarke pads over to the bed, and Bellamy’s heart pounds as she lifts the covers slightly and gets in beside him. She’s already changed out of her date clothes, in her pyjamas now. She rests her head on the pillow, facing him, and Bellamy turns onto his side so they’re face to face. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that she’s in his bed, but his throat is dry and his brain has turned to mush. This is so not something they usually do.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice coming out all husky.

“It was still fun,” Clarke shrugs. “Which I guess was the point of the date anyway.”

“But she’s not the love of your life,” Bellamy jokes. Clarke doesn’t laugh. She bites her lip.

“No,” she agrees. She glances down, reaching for his hand. His heart spasms.

She frowns in confusion. “Why are your fingernails pink?” she asks.

“Oh,” Bellamy says, blushing. He really thought she just wanted to hold his hand for a moment. Idiotic. “Murphy and I got bored. I hope you don’t mind.”

Clarke smiles, amused. “Did he do this?” she asks, holding his hand up in front of her face, studying his nails.

“Yeah.”

“He sucks, you should have let me do them.”

“Next time,” Bellamy promises.

He watches her as she caresses his hand, twice the size of hers. God, she’s so little, and he’s so big. They’d look ridiculous together as a couple. Surely Murphy can see that. Bellamy can see it, and he knows Clarke can see it too. If the thought even crossed her mind, which it probably hasn’t.

Bellamy thinks about it all the time. It’s one of the many things he tells himself, every time he starts entertaining the thought of him and Clarke together. How people would look at them and wonder why the hell someone like her is with someone like him. How embarrassed Clarke would be to be seen with him at one of her mom’s fancy parties. How she’d have to be on top if they had sex, because otherwise he’d crush her.

Suddenly he’s all too aware of how much space he takes up, how he’s shirtless under the covers, how he doesn’t want Clarke to see his flabby stomach. He thinks he can pass for _bulky _when he has a shirt on, especially considering the size of his arms and shoulders. Without the shirt, there’s no denying it. He’s just fat.

“You should probably get to bed,” Bellamy says hoarsely. 

“Are you kicking me out?” Clarke pouts.

“Well, it’s not like there’s a lot of room in this bed,” Bellamy points out.

“There’s plenty,” Clarke says. “And besides, I’m only little, I don’t need much room.” As if to prove her point, she scoots closer to him, and he can feel her breasts press up against his bare chest. He stiffens, moving away slightly. She notices. “Sorry,” she says, blushing. “I didn’t mean to…” she trails off. To touch him? To get so close to him? Either way, why would she want to?

“It’s fine,” Bellamy says quickly. He doesn’t want her to think she’s offended him, even if it does hurt a little. She thinks his body is as gross as he does. It’s fine.

“I’ll go,” Clarke says, a small waver in her voice. She slips out of bed, looking like she can’t wait to get away from him. “Goodnight,” she says. She doesn’t even wait for him to answer before she leaves, shutting the door firmly behind her.

-

Bellamy wakes up for work on Monday morning with a text from Murphy.

** _Remember when you looked like this? _ **

The next message is a photo of Bellamy from when he was about twenty. Bellamy grimaces at the photo, and not because he’s remembering how much fitter he used to be. See, the thing is, when Bellamy was in his early twenties, he went through this phase of thinking his hair looked really good all gelled back. He was wrong. He still cringes at the memory of it.

He sends Murphy a begrudging response.

**What of it? **

** _Either tell Clarke how you feel or wear your hair like this to work today. _ **

**I hate you**

Bellamy doesn’t even own any hair gel anymore, so he has to leave for work early and grab some on the way. He sits in the car in the parking lot at work, flips down the sun visor and looks up into the mirror as he smears the gel into his hair, then combs it through. It looks revolting. At least Clarke isn’t around to see him looking like this. Like she needs another reason to find him unattractive.

Bellamy grimaces at his reflection before snapping the visor back up and getting out of the car. He walks into the station, already feeling like everyone is staring at him and there’s not even anyone else in the parking lot.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Miller asks him as soon as he walks into the precinct.

“Blame Murphy.” Bellamy heads for his desk and throws his bag down, before slumping in his chair.

“He jizz in your hair or something?”

“He’s blackmailing me.”

“He must have something really good on you to get you to make your hair look like that.”

“Yeah.”

“And he couldn’t blackmail you into doing anything better than gelling your hair?”

“Don’t give him any ideas.”

“I already have a list of ideas,” says Murphy from somewhere behind Bellamy, his voice startling him. Bellamy swivels around. “Have you told her yet?” Murphy asks.

“Oh, this is about Clarke,” Miller realises.

“You told Miller?” Bellamy scowls at Murphy.

Murphy shrugs. “You never said I couldn’t.”

“You are seriously the worst friend of all time.”

“For the record,” Miller says. “You should probably just tell her you like her. There’s a good chance she likes you too.”

“There is no fucking way.”

-

The gel is still holding his hair well by the time Bellamy gets home, but by then he’s kind of forgotten about it. No one had even noticed his new hairstyle other than Miller and Murphy, much to Murphy’s annoyance.

Clarke, however, does notice.

He gets home from work, kicks his shoes off by the door (a habit which Clarke is constantly hassling him about), then collapses onto the couch. Clarke gets home a few minutes later, and stops dead when she sees him. She raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Bellamy says. Then he remembers the hair. “Oh.” He runs a hand over his slicked back hair. 

“Trying something new?” Clarke asks delicately. She walks over and joins him on the couch. Of course, Bellamy takes up a large portion of it, large and sprawled out as he is, but Clarke tucks herself into the corner, managing not to touch him at all. Which is fine. He doesn’t want her to touch him if she’s that repulsed by him.

Bellamy snorts. “Murphy dared me to do it. I used to wear my hair like this in my early twenties. Wish someone had punched me in the face for it.”

Clarke laughs, light and tinkly. Bellamy grins. He loves her laugh, and her smile, and that little beauty mark above her lip. He wants to press his lips against it, kiss her smile, swallow her laugh. He pushes down the desire. It’s a ridiculous fantasy.

Clarke reaches out to touch his hair, and he eyes her warily.

“It’s very hard,” she says as she pulls her hand away.

“That would be the gel.”

“I admit, it’s not a great look. I like you much better with your curls. You can’t run your fingers through gelled hair.”

Bellamy flushes, trying not to imagine Clarke running her fingers through his hair. He rubs his hand over his head again. “It’s getting too long,” he says, pretending like her last comment hadn’t affected him in the slightest. “I should get it cut.”

“I could do it,” Clarke says. She sounds almost eager. “I’ll wash your hair and cut it.”

God. Bellamy hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels. Why does the thought of her washing his hair feel so intimate? Too intimate. He can’t let her do that, he’d never recover.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“Come on,” Clarke says with a smirk. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Bellamy chews his lip. “No.” He swears he sees her flinch. Her smile drops. “Thanks, though,” he says.

“Okay,” Clarke shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She pulls her phone out, holds it up, and snaps a picture of him.

“Hey!”

Clarke grins. “Sorry. I never want to forget this.”

-

“Have you told her yet?”

“Fuck off, Murphy.”

The bartender hands Bellamy his drink, and Bellamy takes a long sip. He’s so not drunk enough to deal with Murphy right now. The bartender places a second drink on the bar; a cocktail Bellamy had ordered for Clarke, then turns to Murphy. He’s been relatively free of Murphy’s “dares” since the hair incident four days ago, and he’s starting to hope Murphy has forgotten about the whole thing.

“I’ll have a whiskey and coke,” Murphy says. “But can you also put some pineapple juice in there? And some Midori.”

“What the fuck? That sounds awful,” Bellamy grimaces. The bartender also doesn’t look impressed with the order, but he starts making it anyway.

“It’s not for me, it’s for you,” Murphy smirks. “Your new drink order for tonight. Or else, well, you know what happens.”

Ah. Bellamy should have known it was too good to be true.

“You can’t seriously expect me to drink that.”

Murphy shrugs. He takes the beer from Bellamy’s hand. “I’ll have this. If you don’t want your drink, I guess I’ll just have to tell Clarke—”

“Fine,” Bellamy cuts him off. “But just know that I hate you.”

The bartender puts Bellamy’s new drink in front of him.

“I’m not paying for it, by the way,” Murphy says, and then he stalks off to the booth where the rest of their friends are sitting. Bellamy sighs, picking up his drink and Clarke’s, and following Murphy over to the table.

Murphy has taken the spot next to Raven where Bellamy was sitting before, leaving Bellamy to slide in next to Clarke. He places her drink in front of her, and tries to leave as much room between him and Clarke that he can. Which isn’t much, otherwise he’ll be hanging off the seat. Monty and Jasper round out the table of six.

Bellamy can feel Murphy watching him, so he takes a sip of his drink. He almost chokes on it, but manages to swallow. It’s awful. Safe to say he won’t be getting drunk tonight as planned. Clarke, on the other hand sucks on her straw eagerly, downing almost half her cocktail with the first sip.

Bellamy eyes her with amusement. “Thirsty?”

Clarke shrugs. “I just feel like getting drunk and forgetting about my problems for a while.”

“Your problems?” he repeats, surprised. She hasn’t told him about any problems. Not that they tell each other everything, but she normally doesn’t mind venting to him now and again when she’s frustrated with work or her mom or whatever. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Clarke screws up her mouth. “It’s just—boy problems.”

“Oh. You can still talk to me about that. Unless you prefer to talk about it with your girlfriends or whatever.”

Clarke considers him. “You really want to know?”

Bellamy nods. “’Course.” He can totally listen to her mope over somebody else. He’s mature. He can deal with the girl he’s in love with being in love with someone who’s not him.

“It’s just—I like somebody. Like, a lot. A _lot, _a lot. For a long time now. And sometimes, lately, I think he might like me too. But every time I try to kind of—make a move, he shuts me down.”

“That sucks.” He’s not jealous. He’s totally not jealous.

“No kidding. Any advice?”

“Have you tried just telling him you like him?”

“No,” Clarke scoffs. “I’d literally rather die.” Bellamy relates to that.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says apologetically. “I guess I’m shitty at relationship advice.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke smiles. “I’m used to suffering in silence by now. What about you? Any romantic prospects on the horizon?”

“Hardly,” Bellamy snorts. “As if anyone would want me.”

“Yeah, right,” Clarke laughs, like she thinks he’s joking. Or maybe she just doesn’t know what to say, because she knows he’s right but doesn’t want to be mean. She downs the rest of her cocktail. “I’m getting another drink, you want something?”

Bellamy glances at his still full drink, then across the table to Murphy, who is deep in conversation with Raven. Still, he can’t take the chance that Murphy won’t notice he’s not drinking his assigned drink and decide to blurt out his feeling for Clarke.

“I’m good.” He gets up so Clarke can get out, then sits back down, allowing himself to relax, and take up as much space as he needs while she’s at the bar. He watches her though. Watches as some tall, thin, stupidly handsome guy comes up to her, and starts obviously flirting with her.

Clarke smiles. Ducks her head as she laughs at whatever this dude is saying to her. Bellamy’s fist clenches under the table, and his jaw locks. Okay, fine, he’s jealous. How could he not be? Clarke likes fit guys, obviously, like the idiot talking to her now. Like how Bellamy used to look, in his glory days. Not how he looks now, with his squishy belly, and the beard he grew to help hide his slight double chin.

The guy leaves Clarke alone, and Bellamy watches as Clarke downs two shots of what looks like vodka, then picks up her new cocktail and brings it back to the table. This guy she likes must be really be doing a number on her. Bellamy hates him.

He gets up again and Clarke slides back into the booth next to Monty. It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to hit her. She finishes her cocktail, then reaches for Bellamy’s drink. He stops listening to Raven’s bragging and turns to Clarke, meaning to stop her from drinking the horrible concoction, but before he can get a word out, she’s downing the whole thing, as if she doesn’t even notice how bad it tastes.

Bellamy eyes her warily, and Clarke grins at him. “You weren’t going to drink that, right?” she asks, as if that’s what his concern is.

“No.” He shakes his head. She gets up, and before Bellamy can move out of her way, she’s climbing over him, her body pressing against his as she squeezes through. Bellamy sucks in his stomach, barely breathing. She heads for the bar again, not bothering to offer him a drink this time. She comes back with another two cocktails.

She gets sloppy drunk after that, and she seems to have lost all sense of personal space. The gap Bellamy had tried to leave between them is gone, and Clarke is leaning on him like she can’t hold herself up. It’s nice, he can’t deny it’s nice. Something he could get used to. But it means nothing.

She babbles a lot when she’s drunk. No one else can get more than a sentence out before Clarke is interrupting to ask a question or go off on a tangent. Raven and Murphy are getting increasingly frustrated with her, but Bellamy just thinks it’s cute. He smirks at Raven’s loud huff when Clarke interrupts her again.

“Clarke, can you shut up for five seconds?” Raven snaps. “I’m in the middle of talking.”

Clarke pokes her tongue out. Mature. “Fine. I’ll just talk to Bellamy. Bellamy wants to talk to me, don’t you, Bell?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Suck up,” Murphy coughs. Bellamy ignores him. He focuses on Clarke, while Raven resumes her story, her voice fading into background noise.

“Why does my head feel so funny?” Clarke whispers.

“I think you’re a little drunk,” Bellamy tells her. She gazes up at him, her eyes trailing across his face.

“You’re so pretty,” she tells him. Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

“I’m pretty?”

“Your eyes. And your freckles.” She reaches out and starts tracing over them. “Like little stars.”

“You really are drunk.”

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“I told you,” Bellamy shrugs. “No one wants me.”

“You’re so stupid,” Clarke says.

“Thanks.”

“I want to go home.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

The other four barely seem to notice as Bellamy helps Clarke to her feet, and the two of them throw out a half-hearted goodbye before heading out to Bellamy’s car. He only got to have one sip of beer and one sip of the god-awful drink, so he’s good to drive.

She’s silent on the drive home, like maybe the buzz from the alcohol is wearing off, and now she’s just tired.

“You okay?” he asks, watching her out the corner of his eye. She shrugs.

“I guess so.”

Bellamy doesn’t push it. He can tell there’s something wrong, but if she doesn’t want to tell him, he can’t make her. She seems dejected as they walk inside, and Clarke heads to her room while Bellamy goes to the bathroom. He intends to go straight to bed after that, but Clarke’s bedroom door is open and the light is on, and he stops in the doorway. She’s in bed, looking at him with her big, sad eyes.

“Everything okay?”

“My bed’s too big and empty. Will you come and hold me?” she croaks out.

Bellamy feels his heart squeeze. He wants to hold her. But he doesn’t want to be some replacement for some other guy. She’s just drunk and lonely. If he were a better friend, he’d be there for her anyway. But whatever she has in her mind won’t be the reality. It won’t make her feel better. It will just be awkward and uncomfortable, the two of them lying there, him probably half smothering her, while she tries to think of a way to tell him she changed her mind without offending him.

“You don’t want that,” Bellamy says.

“Okay,” Clarke says softly. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

-

Murphy comes barging into the apartment the next morning, his expression all too smug. Clarke is still in bed, probably nursing a hangover, and Bellamy has only just taken his first sip of coffee.

“Do you have a key for this place or something?” Bellamy groans as Murphy strides into the kitchen.

“Hurry up,” Murphy says. “Your appointment is in fifteen minutes.”

“Appointment?”

“Your tattoo appointment.”

“No.”

Murphy’s grin widens. “Yes.”

Bellamy groans. It’s not that he’s opposed to getting a tattoo. He already has a couple. But he just knows that whatever Murphy is going to make him get is going to be either ugly, or embarrassing, or both.

“You’re taking it too far,” Bellamy says.

“Desperate times and all that jazz.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“You don’t even know what I want you to get.”

“What do you want me to get?”

“A cowboy—”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“I don’t want to know the rest.”

“Fine,” Murphy says. “Where’s Clarke?”

“She’s in bed, don’t wake her up.”

“You don’t believe I’ll really do it.”

“Not really, no.”

Murphy’s smile borders on maniacal. He turns and walks out of the kitchen. Bellamy’s heart skips a beat, and his cavalier attitude is replaced with panic.

“Murphy!” Bellamy calls after him. Fuck. He races after Murphy and tackles him to the ground, Murphy letting out a surprised yelp as he hits the ground.

“Shit, Bellamy!” Murphy gasps. “Let me go.”

“Promise you won’t tell her.”

“No. What are you going to do, hold me here forever?”

“If I have to.”

Murphy struggles, trying to get free, but he’s no match for Bellamy’s strength. Murphy goes limp again, defeated.

“Do you give in?”

“No.”

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Clarke groans, her voice hoarse. Bellamy and Murphy both look up.

“Practicing,” Bellamy blurts out.

“What the fuck are we practicing?” Murphy says.

“Shut up,” Bellamy growls.

“Clarke,” Murphy says. Bellamy has the strong urge to wrap his hands around Murphy’s throat and choke the life out of him. “Bellamy’s in love with you.”

“I’m not,” Bellamy says quickly, but his face is hot, and he can’t look at her.

“He is,” Murphy says. “He’s in love with you and he won’t tell you because he thinks he’s not good enough for you and I’ve been making him do stupid shit like gel his hair in exchange for not telling you. But I know you love him too.”

Bellamy’s eyes snap to Clarke’s. She’s beet red. She looks away as soon as Bellamy’s eyes meet hers.

“Will you let me go now?” Murphy groans. Bellamy snorts. No point holding Murphy down now that the secret it out. He releases Murphy and gets to his feet.

“Get lost, Murphy,” Bellamy says. He’s got to smooth things over with Clarke, and he can’t do it with Murphy skulking around. Murphy doesn’t say another word, just slinks out of the apartment quietly.

Bellamy looks to Clarke. He’s breathing heavy, though it hadn’t really been much of an effort to hold Murphy down.

“Sorry about him,” Bellamy says as soon as Murphy is gone.

Clarke swallows. “Is it true? What he said?”

“That I’m in love with you, you mean?” Bellamy says, a little bitterly.

“That you don’t think you’re good enough for me.”

“Of course I’m not. Why do you think I never said anything before now? I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know you could never see me like that.”

“How could you think that?” Clarke says, her voice wavering.

“Please, Clarke,” Bellamy snorts. “Look at you. And look at me. It’s obvious. Why would you want to touch me? Don’t I repulse you?” Bellamy snorts.

“_Repulse _me? Bellamy, I’ve been trying to get you into bed with me for _months_.”

Bellamy frowns. “_Why_?”

“Are you kidding? I’m obviously stupidly in love with you.”

Bellamy’s breath catches, and he stares at her, barely comprehending. “You—what?”

“I’m in love with you.”

Bellamy still doesn’t get it. “No, you’re not.”

Clarke huffs in frustration. “I think I know what I feel, Bellamy. Why are you so sure I don’t?”

“Clarke,” Bellamy pleads with her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. You could have literally anyone you want.”

“But I want _you_. I think you’re beautiful too.”

Bellamy scoffs. “You’ve never seen me without a shirt.”

“What, you have Lord Voldemort under there or something?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what it is.”

“Seriously, Bellamy. What is it? You know you’re hot, right? Like, really, really hot.”

“I’m not. Maybe ten years ago I was hot. But now I’m just—”

“What?”

He shrugs. “Fat.”

“_Fat?_”

Bellamy can’t meet her eye. It’s embarrassing to admit that it matters to him. That he’s insecure about his weight, about his body, his looks. It feels unmanly.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says softly, stepping towards him. “Look at me.” He does, reluctantly. “You’re not fat just because you don’t have a six pack like you did when you were twenty-five. And god, even if you were, do you think _that _would make me not love you? Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“No, god no,” Bellamy says. “I don’t think you’re shallow. I just—I want you to be with someone you can be proud of. Who won’t make you look bad. If—if we were together, everyone would judge you. They’d wonder why the fuck you’re with me.”

“I _am _proud of you. I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” Clarke says, her voice even softer now. She stands toe to toe with him, looking up at him with stars in her eyes. Like she thinks he’s worthy of her or something. “And to tell you the truth,” she continues. “I kind of like that you’re not all hard and bony. Who wants to cuddle with someone like that?”

“You want to cuddle me?”

She flushes. “Have I not made that embarrassingly clear?”

“You really love me?” Bellamy whispers, his voice cracking. He’s still in denial.

“I really love you.” She reaches for him, hesitantly, watching him cautiously, like she thinks he’s going to run at any moment. He doesn’t stop her when she puts her hands on his chest. She slowly closes her eyes as she tilts her head up, and presses her lips against his. Bellamy’s eyes snap shut when she makes contact. His heart flutters.

Her lips are so soft it could almost be a dream. But then she fists his hands in his shirt and kisses him harder, and he knows it’s real. He opens his mouth, kissing her back, meeting her tongue with his. His hands grip her waist. Kissing her isn’t like kissing anyone else. It’s overwhelming, and passionate, yet it soothes him at the same time, makes him feel at peace.

She pulls away first, but she keeps her hands on his chest, and she doesn’t try to extricate herself from his arms.

“Do you believe me yet?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Bellamy whispers. “It’s just—even if you think you love me now, even if you _do _love me now… once you realise how out of my league you are, it will be over. And I couldn’t bear it if that happened.”

Clarke shakes her head. “Bellamy, I couldn’t stand it if I lost you. It’s why I never told you how I felt before, in case it freaked you out and it ruined our friendship. But I want you too much to let this go. You’re kind of it for me, you know?”

“I don’t know, Clarke,” Bellamy groans. “I want you too, believe me I do. But—I’m scared.”

“Let me take you on a date,” she says. “Please.”

Bellamy hesitates. “Okay,” he agrees.

-

Clarke organises the date. Bellamy is all nerves the whole day beforehand. They’re just going out for dinner, which they’ve done before, just the two of them. But now it _means _something.

Clarke knocks on his bedroom door. “Bell?” she calls. “Are you ready to go?”

Bellamy swallows. He’s been ready for hours. His stomach is in knots and his palms are all sweaty. He’s really going on a date with Clarke Griffin. It doesn’t seem real.

“Yeah,” he croaks. He opens the door. Clarke smiles at him. Fuck, she looks so beautiful. He wants to tell her, but the words won’t come out.

“Let’s go,” she says. Bellamy nods, and follows Clarke out of the apartment. “It’s not far, I thought we could walk,” she says.

“Okay,” Bellamy says. He really is stimulating conversation tonight. Not.

It’s a mild night, with a light breeze, the kind of weather that always makes him feel nostalgic about something. Clarke’s hand brushes against his as they walk side by side. Once, then twice. On the third time, she slips her hand into his, without breaking conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it does feel natural, and right, but it’s also kind of exhilarating, holding her hand in public. She _wants _to hold his hand. It’s still kind of unbelievable. But he lets himself enjoy it. He feels himself relaxing with the warm pressure of her hand in his, and her idle chatter as she tells him about her day. They’re friends, and they love each other. What’s more beautiful than that?

His contentment is short lived, however. The waiter that serves them is this movie star handsome, six-foot-something guy with a dazzling smile. Even Bellamy finds him attractive, and he considers himself mostly straight. It’s not really the guy’s looks that bothers Bellamy though, at least, that’s not the only thing. It’s the way he smiles at Clarke as he introduces himself as _Gabriel_, and leads them to their table. It’s how he addresses all his comments to Clarke, and completely ignores Bellamy, and how everything he says, even the way he tells them the specials, seems to be dripping with flirtation.

Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she likes the attention. She’s not exactly flirting back, but she’s not discouraging it either. Bellamy clenches his jaw, trying to tell himself it’s nothing. He’s got nothing to be jealous about. Clarke is going home with him tonight.

But he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking how much better Clarke would look with Gabriel. How if she wasn’t here on a date with him, she could go home with Gabriel. Somebody actually in her league.

Bellamy’s mood grows dark, his body tense. Gabriel leaves them to peruse the menus, and Bellamy stares at it steadfastly, the words swimming in front of him. How is this date already a disaster? He’s sure his chance with Clarke is shot to hell already.

“Hey, are you okay?” she asks him.

“Fine,” Bellamy says through gritted teeth.

“You’re not.”

Bellamy flicks his eyes up. “Just think _Gabriel _should do his job instead of flirting with patrons who are clearly on a date with someone else.”

“You think he’s flirting with me?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Sorry,” Bellamy mutters. “I just—”

“Don’t,” Clarke stops him. “We can leave if you want. It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be jealous every time you talk to someone hotter than me. I don’t want you feel like you have to placate me.”

“I know you don’t,” Clarke says. “So what do you want? You want to just forget this ever happened? Go back to being friends?”

“Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“Me either,” Bellamy says, breathing a sigh of relief. “I want—”

“Yeah?”

“I want to be your boyfriend,” he says. A smile spreads over Clarke’s face. “And I want to feel like I’m worthy of you. I want to love you like you deserve to be loved.”

“Me too,” Clarke whispers. “I want that too.”

Bellamy gives her a shaky smile. “Okay.”

“Okay. You know I love you, right? Only you. Exactly as you are.”

“I love you too. Exactly as you are.”

Clarke blushes, ducking her head. “That’s, uh, the first time you said that yourself. Out loud.”

“It is?”

Clarke nods. “You know, I don’t think I feel like being out anyway. I don’t like being across the table from you. I want you to kiss me and hold me. Let’s go home.”

Bellamy doesn’t argue this time. They walk back home, hand in hand again, and Bellamy can’t stop smiling. When they arrive home, they order in, and Clarke curls up in his arms on the couch, her head on his chest, and Bellamy doesn’t even worry that she’s thinking he’s too fat. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so content in all his life. He’s still nervous about being naked in front of her. But he knows they can take it slow, and he knows she’ll make him feel safe and wanted. And they can work through his insecurities together.

“I love you,” Bellamy whispers into her hair, before kissing the top of her head. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Ditto,” Clarke says. “I guess you should thank Murphy for helping us get our feelings out in the open.”

“I would literally rather do anything other than that.”


End file.
